


Laundry

by Murdersfriesandgayguys



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Almost smut, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Smug Hannibal, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham fails at basic tasks, Will ruins clothes but not in the way all you sinners expect, Will wears Hannibal's red sweater, like i mention a cock, thats about as far as it goes though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:41:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24328954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murdersfriesandgayguys/pseuds/Murdersfriesandgayguys
Summary: Will Graham wakes up sweaty from sleep and Hannibal suggests he wash his clothes. Will decides to be nice and offer to wash Hannibal's clothes, but it turns out to be a lot more difficult than he bargained for.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 25
Kudos: 106





	Laundry

The sound of the rain hitting the window panes with enough force to shake the room gently eases Will from his sleep. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. Actually, come to think of it, he doesn’t remember the events of the night before at all. He’s laying in the spare room in Hannibal’s mansion, a room he’s come to know far too well for his own liking. The silk sheets cling to his body like cling film and he feels suffocated by them, wriggling around pathetically to try and free himself from their grasp. He’s fully clothed, wet denim sticking to his skin and chafing like crazy.

  


The arrival of Hannibal at the bedroom door is the only thing that alerts Will to the fact that he has fallen out of the bed. The floor is cool against his sweat slicked skin through his tshirt and it’s somewhat of a relief. 

  


“Good morning, Will. If you would like to get up off the floor, breakfast is ready,” he seems to notice the state that Will is in then, sighing, “the washing machine is in the basement. I would offer to wash your clothes for you, but you are perfectly capable of doing so yourself and I’m sure you would inform me of the same.” His smile is genuine, eyes crinkling at their corners. Smiling takes years off the man. Will should tell him that at some point.

  


“Thank you.” Will manages to grunt out as he untangles himself from reams of blankets, sitting up on the floor. “Do you have any clothes that need washing? It’s the least I can do.” It’s true. Since his house in Wolftrap was burgled, Hannibal has let him stay with him.

  


He remembers reaching for his gun, staring the masked man in the eye and pulling the trigger as his dogs barked and snarled at the intruder. He remembers sitting on the porch, covered in sticky and drying blood as he waited for Jack to get there. It was overkill again. He knew that the second he pulled the trigger. Then again. And again. Over and over until the man was a bloodied mess on the floor. He had a terrible feeling, right in his gut, that he was going to be committed to the psych ward. So, when Hannibal Lecter arrived with a warm coat and a sorry smile on his lips, Will practically fell into his arm, shaking and gasping for breath. The last thing he remembered was spluttering out, 

  


“Don’t let them lock me up.”

  


It’s been a full week now and Will is still too afraid to go home, afraid that he’ll kill the next person who walks into his house, friend or foe. Afraid that he’ll be unable to find his gun and that he’ll die in his bed. It’s best for him to stay here until he gets his head back on straight. A few more days. Another week at most. 

  


His thoughts are interrupted by Hannibal breaking the silence that had fallen over them. It seemed an odd place for silence. Will had asked a question after all. 

  


“I have a few shirts that need laundering. I will warn you that they have some rather specific washing instructions.” Will scoffs at that. He knows how to wash a fucking shirt. It’s not like he hasn’t done laundry before. He’s pretty sure Hannibal gets everything dry cleaned anyway so he's definitely doing him a favour. 

  


Not that Hannibal doesn't have the money to spare.

  


“I know how to wash a shirt, Hannibal. I’ll be fine. Just leave the instructions by the machine,” he mumbles as he rises up off the floor, beginning to peel his T-shirt off. He looks over at Hannibal and quirks a brow, “are you just going to stand there and watch me strip or are you going to close the door?” The words are a bit more biting than he intends them to be, but they do the job. The door closes with a soft click and Will is left alone, grumbling, “washing instructions… I know how to do laundry. He treats me like a child…” the grumbling continues as he pads to the en suite to take a shower, washing away the sweat and sleep from his body, watching it wash down the drain, black like tar as it begins to pool around his ankles, ensuring them in its grip, rising up around him. He starts to panic, chest heaving as the tar gets higher and higher, threatening to engulf him entirely. He reaches for the shower door handle, grasping around blindly for it as the tar reaches his eyes. He holds his breath as he tugs the handle and the door opens easily. He quickly jumps out. His feet unstuck from the shower tray and he finds himself gripping the sink for balance. When he looks back to the shower the blackness is gone, running water taking its place. 

  


Rather than get back into the shower, he finishes washing in the sink, splashing his face with cold water. He looks in the mirror and finds himself frowning at his own appearance. He looks dishevelled. He looks  _ old _ . He had never really taken much note of his looks, not until he met Hannibal. Now he’s paranoid about them. Every new worry line, every new wrinkle, makes him feel old.

  


Will heads back into the bedroom to get dressed, pulling on some of the clothes that Hannibal had given him. A black shirt that hugs his body in ways that he didn’t think were possible before now, some grey slacks that definitely show his ass off more than he would regularly choose, and a red sweater. He’s aware that the combination of colours will be ghastly to Hannibal, but he doesn’t care. He’s seen Hannibal wear this sweater before and he finds the thought somewhat comforting. He looks at his reflection again in the full length mirror, hugging his arms around himself and burying his nose in the soft woven fabric of the sweater and inhaling deeply. It smells like him. The scent is every note of Hannibal. It smells like spices and laundry detergent, like a warm fire and a clean kitchen. 

  


This thing that they have is weird. They’ve run straight past the whole doctor/patient relationship, strolled through the friend zone and are now straddling the line between friends and lovers. Sometimes he finds himself imagining scenarios where he leans in close and feels the brush of Hannibal's lips against his own, but he pushes those thoughts away. Hannibal is his therapist and friend. Nothing more. He will never be anything more.

  


Although, on more than one occasion, Hannibal has pulled him close and rubbed his back or cupped his face and looked him deep in the eyes to ground him through an episode. In those moments, Will has always been able to see affection behind those amber eyes, flickering nervously. Uncertain. As if Hannibal is afraid of his own feelings or unnerved by them.

  


His thoughts are interrupted by the smell of bacon wafting up the stairs from the kitchen and he realises that he's been up here far too long. Hannibal is waiting for him. 

  


He wanders down the stairs, taking in the sights of his temporary home. It never ceases to amaze him how utterly massive this place is, ceilings so high that you'd need a ladder just to remove the cobwebs from the corners of the room. Not that Hannibal ever seems to have any cobwebs to deal with in the first place. Will is convinced that not even a spider would dare to defile this man's home. That even spiders feel intimidated by its inconceivable size and grace. His feet stick to the cold marble floors as he walks towards the source of the smell.

  


The kitchen is filled with an array of pleasant scents. Coffee, bacon and something else that he can't quite put his finger on. Maple? He sees Hannibal sitting at the island, bare feet perched like a gargoyle's on the bar of his stool as he reads the news headlines on his tablet. His face is framed by his hair which hasn't been gelled into place yet. It's a disgustingly domestic image and Will is ashamed to admit to himself that he never wants this moment to end. 

  


Will hops up onto the stool next to Hannibal, looking over his shoulder to see what he's reading only to be swatted away gently yet sternly. 

  


"It is very rude to look over someone's shoulder while they are reading, Will." Hannibal scolds, but Will knows that it's all just an act. He's as delighted to have Will here as Will is to be here. "Did you sleep well?" He asks. His ability to make any topic sound like the most interesting topic in the world is absolutely staggering and Will finds himself unable to respond for a moment for fear of giving a boring answer.

  


"I don't really remember much from last night. It's almost as if a fog rolled over my brain at around 9pm and nothing else registered for the rest of the evening." He admits almost sheepishly. It feels wrong to forget an evening with Hannibal Lecter. Everyone always raves about his parties and his company, but Will finds that he never remembers much of their interactions. He's so taken in by Hannibal that his mind becomes clouded as they speak, his consciousness drifting. Hannibal is just so captivating. 

  


Either that or he's been drugging Will on the fly to try and make him stay. 

  


Hannibal seems somewhat troubled by this seemingly benign comment as he sets Will's breakfast down in front of him, walking to the sink to start washing up. Will frowns slightly, "Is there a problem? Do you think I'm sick or something?" He doesn't mean to sound worried, but he does. He's still afraid that he'll be carted off to the BSHCI and locked up forever, pacing his cell and talking to the walls while the shouts of other inmates haunt the halls.

  


"No no, I am sure you were just exhausted. What's troubling me is that you don't remember-" he cuts himself off, "nevermind. Eat your breakfast. It's getting cold." Oh now Will's even more fucking curious.

  


"You can't just say something like that to me and expect me to just let it slide! What did I do? What did  _ you _ do?" Will says through a mouthful of scrambled egg. Maple. It's definitely maple. 

  


Hannibal seems to take a deep breath, his shoulders rattling slightly on the exhale. He's nervous. "You kissed me." Will's stomach turns and suddenly he's not hungry anymore. "And I kissed back of course." Well that doesn't really make it any better. Still, Will is at least glad that Hannibal didn't recoil away in horror. Why can't he remember it? 

  


"You went unconscious almost immediately afterwards. I had to carry you to bed. I was worried that I had come on too strong." Hannibal seems almost remorseful, his shoulders sinking lower and lower. Will pushes his plate away.

  


"Could you save that? I'll come back for it later. I'm going to go and do the laundry." He stands up from his stool, head pounding as he heads back up the stairs to grab his sweat soaked clothes from the floor of his temporary bedroom. He wracks his brain, trying to remember the kiss, trying to conjure up an image of what it had been like, but his mind is completely blank.

  


*

  


The basement is eerie and quiet save for the faint hissing sound of the pipes which run down the walls towards the boiler. The room is pristine, but there's an air of something sinister about it, as if something is about to come up behind Will and slit his throat. Above his head, he can hear the sounds of Hannibal walking around in his obnoxiously loud dress shoes. He's obviously gotten dressed since Will last saw him. 

  


There is a stainless steel bench, much like the ones in the kitchen, no doubt used for butchering his own meat. It’s purpose is given away by the bone saw next to it, glinting in the dim light of the overheads. The basement itself is bigger than Will’s entire Wolftrap home and probably more tastefully decorated as well. It’s all clean lines, washable surfaces. 

  


The search for the washing machine is difficult enough. There doesn’t seem to be any sign of it. Of course it would be hidden because Hannibal cares about appearances too much to ever have it on show, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that it is proving completely impossible to find the damn thing. He understands that aesthetics are important, but so is practicality and this is anything but practical.

  


He refuses to ask Hannibal for help because he knows all too well that he'll get one of those smug smiles and then be led back down to the basement only for Hannibal to point out the washing machine that has been in plain sight all along. He doesn't want to afford Hannibal that pleasure. 

  


Will begins searching every single wall for hidden buttons or handles behind which the washing machine may lie. Eventually, he finds a well concealed door which he pulls back to reveal a small washing alcove with a sink, washer and dryer, along with a basket for Hannibal's clothes. Will takes a peek inside the basket to see five shirts laying there, each a different colour and pattern. Laying on top of the pile are handwritten instructions on how to wash each item. It's all written in Hannibal's almost impossibly fancy handwriting and Will can barely make out the words. He rolls his eyes as he tosses his uncomfortably damp clothes into the washing machine. He picks up the paper and begins to read aloud,

  


"Twill Cotton should be washed at 104 degrees with detergent and should be air dried." He scoffs, but continues reading anyway, "Silk must be washed with cold water in the sink. Detergent may be used and air drying is necessary," he groans in annoyance, muttering, "Jesus Christ, Hannibal. They're just fucking shirts." 

  


He skims the rest of the instructions and sets them aside, turning to the shirts instead. He picks one up to examine it, but it's hard to see in the dim lights of the basement. This particular shirt is an Egyptian cotton one. He only knows this because Hannibal has delicately pinned labels to the tags in order to tell Will what's what. Will lifts the label and sees that the initials 'HL' are embroidered beneath the collar on the inside. He can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Shirts that are so uniquely Hannibal's that they have his initials embroidered onto them. As if he couldn't be any more pretentious. 

  


Still, Will finds himself thumbing over the soft fabric and holding it to his chest, cherishing the closeness to Hannibal that it makes him feel. As he raises the fabric to his nose, he realises what he's doing and stops in his tracks, setting the shirt down again and letting out a frustrated sigh. 

  


The forgotten kiss is still plaguing his thoughts, causing his heart rate to quicken and his breath to hitch. He reckons that its second hand embarrassment for a situation that he doesn't remember being a part of, but he can't be too sure. Perhaps he's just aroused by the thought. 

  


He attempts to push it away, focusing instead on the task at hand. Hannibal will be wondering what's taking him so long so he needs to get a wriggle on. He tosses every shirt bar the silk one into the washing machine and places a colour catcher in with them for safety before putting a capful of detergent in with the load. He closes the door, sets the temperature to 104 degrees as stated and starts the wash. Now he has an hour to wash this silk shirt and try and figure out what the fuck he's supposed to do about this kiss as he listens to Hannibal pacing upstairs and the hissing of the pipes on the walls. 

  


He stands over the sink and places the stopper in the drain, turning the cold tap on full blast. As it's filling up, he places a capful of detergent into the water and watches it foam up, too mesmerized by the bubbles for a moment to realise that the sink is close to overflowing with water. He quickly turns the tap off and reaches out to grab the silk shirt then, feeling the soft, slippery fabric between his fingers. Much like the sheets on the bed, Will finds the cling of it uncomfortable, but soothing to touch. He plucks the homemade tag off of the label before submerging the shirt in the water. He quickly gathers up a rhythm, washing away the minimal amounts of grime with relative ease while the washing machine whirrs by his side. 

  


His thoughts begin to wander again as he tries to remember the night before.

  


_ We had dinner. I remember that much. We had that weird dessert with the- God what was it? Was it aubergine? Yeah it was a dessert with aubergine. We had that and then I drank a whiskey on the rocks by the fire while we talked about-  _

  


His train of thought is interrupted by footsteps approaching the laundry alcove. He realises that he's already been standing there for an hour, his hands pruned from the water, the silk shirt probably cleaner than the day it was made after an hour's scrubbing. Hannibal is standing at the entrance, looking somewhat displeased.

  


"Don't look at me like that. I was just distracted by my thoughts." Will grumbles, setting the silk shirt aside as he pulls the stopper free from the drain. The bubbles begin to gurgle away and Hannibal looks at him, clicking his tongue as he opens the washing machine door. 

  


“You seem to have put all of my shirts in at once. You have disregarded my instructions and my Egyptian cotton is ruined.” Will’s eyes widen as he glances at the open door, 

  


“What do you mean?! I did what it said on the instructions!” As if to illustrate his point, he picks up the instructions and begins to read aloud, clearing his throat. “You said, and I quote, ‘Twill Cotton should be washed at 104 degrees with detergent and should be air dried. Silk must be washed with cold water in the sink. Detergent may be used and air drying is necessary,' yada, yada, yada.” He looks up at Hannibal, “what the hell did I do wrong then?” 

  


Hannibal lets out a chuckle and takes the instructions away from Will, reading the last part carefully, “Egyptian cotton should be washed on a  _ delicate  _ wash at 104 degrees  _ without _ detergent.” His eyes flash red as he looks up at Will. “You May have to make it up to me,” he practically purrs, smiling wickedly. Will shrinks back into the counter, feeling suddenly like a caged animal, “those shirts were very expensive.” 

  


Will can’t help but try to escape, attempting to duck under Hannibal’s arm to get to the main section of the basement, but Hannibal catches him easily, holding him in a headlock and looking down at Will with a defeated sigh,

  


“Oh Will, you must be aware by now that you can’t run from me.” As Will struggles against him, kicking his legs and grasping at the strong arms around him, Hannibal laughs. He lets go of Will and watches him fall onto the ground, chest heaving as he catches his breath. He looks up at Hannibal with a snarl, 

  


“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I ruined your shirts, but it’s your fault for putting the most important instructions down the bottom!” He stands slowly and brushes himself off, suddenly very aware of the tightness in his trousers. Something about having Hannibal choking him has made his body react. Will puts it down to survival instinct, but he knows it isn’t true and now he’s blushing as he tugs the hem of the sweater down to cover himself. Hannibal is too focused on the ruined shirts to notice and Will sees his opportunity to escape, scrambling up the stairs and into the main living room or  _ drawing room  _ as Hannibal calls it. 

  


He’s pacing, nervous, trying to get his heart rate to calm down as the sound of Hannibal’s footsteps get closer and closer. He’s never been so thankful for those god awful and noisy dress shoes in his life. He sits down on the leather sofa and pulls his knees to his chest, covering them over with the sweater. Oh well, he’s already ruined two shirts today, he might as well ruin a sweater too.

  


“Will,” Hannibal speaks as he walks into the room, seeming to be slightly on edge. He steps close to Will, looking down at him. He’s terrifying like this, looming over him, his features cast in shadow. 

  


_ And terribly arousing.  _

  


Will’s face is alright with blush and he knows that Hannibal can see it as he continues, “What are we to do about this situation?” He seems almost scolding in his demeanour, like a teacher telling a disobedient child off for swinging on his chair.

  


“Okay, Hannibal. I’ll pay for the shirts. I promise. I’m so sorry that I ruined them, I thought I was doing you a favour.” He sighs and hugs his knees, burying his face in them as Hannibal sits next to him. He tenses as he feels a warm, strong hand against the back of his neck.

  


“You are well aware that I wasn’t referring to the shirts, dear Will.” His voice is soft, almost a purr, sending shivers down Will’s spine. He doesn’t dare look up, afraid of what he’ll do if he sees Hannibal’s face. 

  


“I don’t remember it. You took advantage.” Will mumbles, leaning away from the feeling of Hannibal’s warmth moving into his neck. He can’t deny the fact that it feels nice, but he won’t afford himself the luxury of enjoying it. He can’t enjoy it. 

  


Hannibal lets out a barely audible sigh and retracts his hand, “I didn’t take advantage. You kissed me and I kissed back for a moment before you fell unconscious. I am happy to answer any questions you may have.” Will sighs slightly and peeks out from his knees, looking up at Hannibal from under his fringe. 

  


“What is it that troubles you, Will? Do you fear the loss of control?” Hannibal reaches out and tilts Will’s chin up to look at him. Will refuses to make eye contact, staring at Hannibal’s mouth instead.

  


“I fear enjoying it…” he admits softly, closing his eyes. There’s a thin veneer of sweat across his skin now as his body trembles, “I’m terrified that I’ll ruin everything. You’re the first person to ever-“ he can’t find the right words, but Hannibal encourages him with a gentle hand on his back, coaxing the confession out carefully, “You’re the first person to ever see me as anything but  _ crazy _ .” The last word comes out on a whisper and Hannibal responds by laughing.  _ Laughing _ .

  


“You seriously underestimate my feelings towards you, Will. A kiss is not going to harm our relationship,” he promises, nudging his nose just behind Will’s ear. “Nothing you could do could turn me away. I would enjoy your company no matter how  _ crazy _ you were." 

  


Will feels every emotion that he had been suppressing, every urge, flood out at once. He looks up at Hannibal and before he can even register what he’s doing, his lips crash against Hannibal’s cheek. Well, that didn't go as planned.

  


“I’m out of practice.” He mumbles on a laugh as his face begins to heat up again. He tries to kiss him again and actually lands it this time. There’s a terrifying pause where Hannibal doesn’t kiss back and Will is convinced that he’s overstepped his boundaries. He begins to pull away, but Hannibal drags him back in by the back of the neck, his other hand coaxing Will into his lap. 

  


Will obliges, sliding into Hannibal’s lap as he parts his lips into their heavy kiss. He allows Hannibal to lick into his mouth and responds with a breathy moan. 

  


Every negative thought about himself disappears as Hannibal slides his hand beneath his sweater, thumbing over his bare hip. The touch is electric and elicits a disgracefully dirty moan from Will’s lips. He's painfully hard now.

  


Hannibal seems to be enjoying it just as much, rocking his hips upwards in one smooth motion with a breathy moan. Will meets Hannibal's hips with each rolling motion, clutching his shirt so tightly that his knuckles begin to turn white and his fingernails threaten to pierce the fabric. 

  


"Can we-" his breath hitches as Hannibal's lips slide down his neck in a series of wet kisses, causing Will's cock to jump against his fly with each tiny bite, "can we go upstairs? It feels wrong doing this down here." He's convinced that his discomfort has nothing to do with the situation and is all to do with the room so he's relieved when Hannibal smiles and stands up, encouraging Will to wrap his legs around him tightly so that he doesn't fall. Will bites his lip as Hannibal carries him up the stairs and into his bedroom, laying him out on the satin sheets. 

  


Suddenly, Will doesn't feel so sure about this. Something about it seems wrong. It's almost too rushed. His breathing is beginning to quicken and his knees are coming up to meet his chest again. Hannibal can obviously feel the uncertainty because he sits next to Will and gently rubs his back. 

  


"Will, we have all the time in the world. There's no need to rush through this. I'm not going anywhere." He promises, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of Will's head. Will isn't convinced, but he leans towards the kiss nonetheless. "We will take things as slowly as you need to." He assures.

  


He manages to coax Will under the covers after much protesting, tucking him in. Will feels like he's letting Hannibal down. 

  


For months they've skirted around each other, ignoring feelings and suppressing their urges only for Will to deny them that pleasure once more when they were so close to it. 

  


It's the middle of the afternoon and yet Will feels as though he's been awake for days. He can barely keep his eyes open.

  


"Take a nap, Will. I will prepare dinner while you sleep." 

  


The scent of Hannibal's aftershave on his pillow is already beginning to lull him into sleep, but he finds it in himself to mumble, "No. Stay." He reaches out blindly in the direction from which he heard the voice coming from and brushes Hannibal's arm with his fingertips before letting it fall limp off the bed again. 

  


He feels the pressure change beside him, the bed arching towards the new body atop it and Hannibal comes close, winding his arms around Will in a secure hold. 

  


"Shirts can be replaced, but you, my dear, can not." Hannibal mumbles, drawing little circles on Will's hip with his thumb. "There are twenty other shirts in my wardrobe and countless in the world, but there is only one Will Graham." The words pull a soft smile onto Will's lips and he turns so he's facing Hannibal. He nudges his face against Hannibal's chest, breathing in his scent deeply.

  


"And there's only one Hannibal Lecter." 

  


Suddenly, a thought hits him, "Oh… and you look really good when you smile. Young." Hannibal chuckles at that and thanks him softly with a gentle kiss to the top of his head, brushing his hands down Will's back.

  


"Go to sleep. I'll still be here when you wake up." He promises, kissing the top of Will's head once more and nudging his nose into the curls. The pull of sleep is far too strong now and Will finds himself drifting.

  


Hannibal holds him close as he falls asleep, hands balled up in Hannibal's soft cotton shirt. He knows that Hannibal may get revenge on him later, but, for now, he lets Will sleep. 

  


Two ruined shirts and a stretched out sweater is what it took to get into Hannibal's bed. He wonders how many suits he'll have to ruin to get into his head. 

  


*

  


_ There are other measures of self-respect for a man, than the number of clean shirts he puts on every day. _

  


_ -Ralph Waldo Emerson _

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really sorry this is so badly written. I am not a writer, but I liked this idea too much to leave it. This fic has gone through around 3 different concepts and this is what I settled on. I hope you enjoyed!


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